poem about a lady with a red face and long blonde hair

I met this female poet many years ago.
we were to read on the same card
for our hundred bucks
with 3 or 4 others.

the university got us our dinner with
and the 3 or 4 others didn’t drink much
but the female poet and I kept ordering
more bottles.

at the time she was writing about the
terrible times she was having with
while I was writing about how terribly
the women were treating me.
(when one listens to this crap one
always yearns to hear the words of the

anyhow, this female poet and I didn’t
particularly like each other, which
is the way it is, most times with the

well, the prof got us to the reading
and I don’t remember much about it
except that she wouldn’t get down from
she stood at that podium reading poem
after poem about her troubles with
she was really in agony and listening
to her I got that way too.

next thing I knew I was back in my motel
room sobering up on beer
getting ready for the flight out the
next morning.

I sat waiting, sucking on those beers–
somehow, even though we hadn’t particularly
liked each other, I expected her to come by
and lay her body under mine

don’t ask me why, just natural stupidity,
you know.

I got on the plane and out….

she did have a rather pretty face.
long sharp nose, rather dirty stringy
she was dressed in a long white gown
a madhouse gown
except with a long low cut section in
she smoked constantly and kept staring
at the tablecloth.

that must have been a couple of decades

she’s still writing and I am too

she’s still writing about how it keeps
going wrong with men

and I?

meanwhile, the 3 or 4 others with us
at that reading have vanished

which seems to show that to last you
have to choose an enduring subject
and/or drink very much wine

or maybe better yet, like she taught
me, not to got to bed with anybody
around because there’s
nothing else to do.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript